


Watching Through My Fingers

by wandasmaximoffs



Series: C'est La Vie, C'est La Mort [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, ferre and r being bros helpin each other out, ghost!jolras, only a little bit tho. just grantaire being clumsy af, tw for, whooo boy here we go
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-31 00:33:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8555683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wandasmaximoffs/pseuds/wandasmaximoffs
Summary: Combeferre joins him on the sofa, curling up with him and twisting his hair between his fingers. He looks broken now, too, and there goes Enjolras’ not-heart again.“I miss him,” Says Grantaire, simply, quietly, and Combeferre’s face crumples.“I know,” He whispers, “Me too. According to Courfeyrac, it will fade, but he didn’t sound convinced.”





	

Enjolras has learned to find comfort in the small things.

Being a ghost, finding comfort in anything is hard enough; Unable to touch, or hold, or speak, or even be _noticed_ by anyone he loves. Having to watch his friends suffer and try to heal after his death, having to watch _Grantaire_ try to piece himself back together.

But no, that’s not right. He’s _not_ piecing himself back together–

Enjolras, as he was known to do when he was alive, finds comfort in his friends.

 

* * *

 

Watching Grantaire fall apart never gets easier, and he thinks that’s a good thing. No one with a _heart_ could desensitise to watching the man they love fall apart, periodically, over their death.

(Technically, he _doesn’t_ have an actual heart. But that’s a matter he’s sick of dwelling on.)

But, as always, Combeferre and Cosette swoop in like guardian angels and take their places as saving graces.

(He did wonder, those first few days, if that was to be his fate; He quickly decided against it. A guardian angel should be able to _actually comfort_ his charge, not be stuck, watching, helpless.)

Combeferre arrives at around five in the evening, familiar blue coat buttoned high and a bag of takeout food in his hand, just as Grantaire’s composure starts slipping. He’s not sure what caused it at first, since he was sat on the sofa while Grantaire was in the bedroom; but at the sound of Combeferre’s arrival, Grantaire emerges, a smashed photograph in his hands.

Enjolras knows better than to reach out to him, by now, knows that it won’t make any difference. It doesn’t stop him from trying, though, and Grantaire shudders when he starts to rub soothing circles on his back.

(That’s nothing. All humans do it, when he touches them. He wonders how many ghosts he’d come in contact with, when he was alive.)

“Please don’t cry,” He says, softly, though his words are swallowed by whatever void he’s stuck in, and overlapped by Combeferre’s sigh of “Oh, Gran- _taire,_ what’ve you done?”

It’s not a reprimand, and there’s no exasperation in his tone; Just… Sympathy. And pity. _That’s wrong,_ thinks Enjolras, _Grantaire hates pity._ It’s around this point, though, that he notices the small, bleeding cut on his hand.

Grantaire makes an exasperated noise, and drops the smashed picture frame on the sofa before he can get blood on the actual photograph.

“It’s fine, I just– Knocked a picture over, because it’s me, and of course I did, and then– Got fucked up tryna clean it up–”

His breath his coming is short gasps now, words stuttered and impeded by the sharp push-pull of his lungs, desperate for air.

(Enjolras remembers a time when Grantaire would rather _“eat blue paint and shit rainbows for a week”_ than cry in front of his friends. _Well, that’s unhealthy,_ he’d said in response, playing with his hair absently, _crying is natural. It’s good for you. No one would judge you, anyway, Joly cries all the time._ )

(He cries a lot, now.)

“Oh– No, hey,” Says Combeferre, pushing his glasses up as he crosses the short distance between them, walking straight through Enjolras and holding Grantaire’s hand up for inspection.

(Being walked through? Not a sensation he’s going to get used to. Ever.)

When he’s satisfied that there’s no glass left in his hand, he guides him, gently, to sit on the side of the sofa that _isn’t_ covered in broken glass, and crouches in front of him.

“Hey. C’mon. Breathe with me– _In,_ out. _In–_ Out. There you go, that’s it.”

(Enjolras feels his non-existent heart breaking again, and again, and again again again until he’s pretty sure it resembles the shards of glass on the sofa. If it could resemble anything. If he had one.)

(He keeps watching, though. It’s all he can do. Keep watching. Maybe if he watches long enough, he’ll see him happy again.)

 

* * *

 

Combeferre wraps his hand properly, cleans up the glass, and places the now-frameless picture on the coffee table, next to the note that Grantaire still hasn’t moved.

(It’s a picture of Enjolras, go figure. He doesn’t think it’s a particularly _good_ picture, him drooling on Grantaire’s shoulder in the back of a minivan, but he knows Grantaire’s always been fond of it. Cosette took it, when they all packed up a took a roadtrip to italy, to visit Bahorel’s family.

Enjolras finds himself smiling at the memory, reaching out to the picture to take a closer look–

Oh. Right.)

He moves his attention back to Grantaire and Combeferre.

Now that the cleaning is done, Combeferre joins him on the sofa, curling up with him and twisting his hair between his fingers. He looks broken now, too, and there goes Enjolras’ not-heart again.

“I miss him,” Says Grantaire, simply, quietly, and Combeferre’s face crumples.

“I know,” He whispers, “Me too. According to Courfeyrac, it will fade, but he didn’t sound convinced.”

Grantaire snorts. “You’re the doctor, this is your area of expertise.”

 _“Student,”_ Corrects Combeferre, and he smiles ever so slightly– Enjolras recognises it, sad and small and a little bit rueful. (It’s a smile they all wear a lot, these days.)

“Besides,” He continues, shifting slightly to hide his face in Grantaire’s shoulder, “You’ll think me awful for saying it, but sometimes I don’t want it to fade.”

Grantaire nods.

“I don’t think that’s awful,” He says, and it’s so quiet and so broken, Enjolras curls in on himself. “I don’t want it to fade sometimes, either. I– It’s _real._ And it’s– I don’t know. I just miss him.”

Enjolras swallows thickly, but it’s a purely habitual action. He’s a ghost. He doesn’t need to do anything like that anymore.

 

* * *

 

They fall asleep like that, eventually, the food abandoned on the table, television blaring something or other about a magic toothpaste than can whiten your teeth in a week. Enjolras is glad– Grantaire hasn’t been sleep anywhere near as much as he should lately, and he’s glad he’s finally getting a little bit of rest.

(he looks almost-peaceful when he’s asleep; Enjolras can pretend, for a few seconds at a time, that nothing has changed. It’s not so unusual for Grantaire to fall asleep in front of the television, after all.)

(It doesn’t last, though, and reality checks him every few seconds, brings it all flooding back.)

Enjolras settles beside them, as well as he can, and _watches._

**Author's Note:**

> aAAAAH yes more ghost au!! this is really sad again bUT I MEAN....THERE'S A LITTLE BIT OF COMFORT IN THERE... anyway, thank you for reading this!! as always, feel free to leave comments / kudos :vv
> 
> if you have prompts, for this 'verse or any other, or you just wanna chat, feel free to hmu on tumblr @ jehanprouvaiire !!


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